The First Real Conversation
1006 Words
Adrian Sinclair’s POV
I hadn’t planned to come here.
But somehow, after the dinner with Charlotte, the fake toasts, the cold congratulations from business partners, and my father’s smug grin like he’d just sold me like a prized artifact—I found myself in front of Rowan’s penthouse door.
I didn’t even remember the ride here. Just the feel of my fists clenched in my lap, the smell of stale cologne and champagne on my skin, and the storm in my chest that had been building since the engagement was announced.
The buzzer was warm under my finger. I pressed it once. My throat was dry.
I almost turned around.
Then the door opened with a soft click. Rowan stood there barefoot, wearing low-slung black sweatpants and a dark T-shirt that looked way too comfortable for the way I was unraveling inside.
“Thought you might show up,” he said.
His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it. Like a blade hidden under velvet.
I didn’t say anything. I just stepped past him into the penthouse.
It was sleek—masculine. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the glittering skyline, and the living room had that curated but lived-in look, like he hadn’t tried to impress anyone but still somehow did.
A low jazz melody played from an old vinyl in the corner. Of course he had a record player.
“You want a drink?” he asked, closing the door behind us.
“I think I’ve had enough of those,” I said, letting out a bitter laugh.
He studied me for a moment, then nodded and walked toward the kitchen. I followed, my heartbeat a thick thud in my chest.
I had no idea what I was doing here. All I knew was that I couldn’t breathe since seeing him again.
He handed me a glass of water. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
I took a sip, then sat at the edge of the leather couch. He sat across from me in a matching armchair, elbows on his knees, watching me.
“So?” he said after a minute of silence.
I looked at him. That face. It was infuriating how familiar it had become in such a short time.
“I need to know,” I said slowly. “Was that night… was it just a game to you?”
Rowan leaned back slightly, his expression tightening. “You kissed me, remember?”
“I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“No, but you weren’t pretending either.”
That landed like a gut punch.
“I didn’t come here for this to be easy,” I said.
“Good. Because nothing about this is.”
I swallowed hard. My tongue felt like sandpaper. “I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. That night—it was a mistake. It was supposed to be.”
“Funny,” Rowan said, voice flat, “I don’t remember it feeling like a mistake.”
I rubbed my hands together. “You don’t understand what I’m risking.”
He stood up. “You think I don’t get it? You think you’re the only one with something to lose?”
I looked up at him. “What could you possibly lose?”
He laughed without humor. “My sister. My reputation. My career, if your father decides I’m bad for business. Do you think people are lining up to work with the ‘scandalous brother-in-law’ who hooked up with the billionaire heir the night before his engagement?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
He stepped closer, kneeling so we were eye level. “You think I don’t lie awake at night trying to figure out what the hell that night meant?”
His voice dropped. “Because I do.”
The air between us was charged now. Heavy.
“But it can’t mean anything,” I said, almost too softly. “I’m engaged.”
“To my sister.”
“I know.”
“Do you love her?”
I couldn’t answer.
He exhaled shakily. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
I stood abruptly, pacing the room. “I didn’t choose any of this.”
“And I did?”
I turned to him. “You’re not the one marrying someone you don’t love.”
“No. I’m the one watching someone I could love marry someone else.”
That silenced me.
There it was.
The thing I wasn’t brave enough to say, but he just did.
“I don’t know what I want,” I whispered.
He stood too. We were only inches apart. “You know,” he said. “You’re just afraid to want it.”
The silence grew louder.
Then, gently, he lifted his hand and touched the side of my face. My skin lit up where his fingers met it.
“I remember everything about that night,” he said. “The way you looked at me. The way you kissed me like you finally exhaled after holding your breath for years.”
I closed my eyes.
“And you know what?” he added. “You didn’t feel like a mistake. You felt like someone finally choosing to be alive.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t even realize I was crying until his thumb wiped a tear away.
“I can’t do this,” I said, voice cracking.
“You already are.”
I wanted to argue. To run. To disappear into the night and pretend I never met him.
But I didn’t move.
He stepped even closer. Our foreheads touched.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“I can’t.”
“But you want to.”
God help me, I did.
But that made it even worse.
Because wanting him—wanting anything—meant tearing down the walls I’d built for twenty-six years.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he said.
And somehow, those four words cracked something open in me I’d spent a lifetime locking up.
- Writer
